Imagining Diana

by Diane Clehane

  She felt very tired this morning because she could not sleep the previous night. She was never a sound sleeper, but now she couldn’t bear to close her eyes. The darkness frightened her now. Sometimes, just as she was about to nod off, she’d see the blinding flashes from a crush of cameras and a bottomless fear would bolt her upright in bed.

  What a nightmare this has been, she thought. Diana had no memory of what happened after the car driven by Henri Paul and carrying her, Dodi and the bodyguard Trevor Rees-Jones entered the Pont de l’Alma tunnel. She had seen the grotesque photographs of the mangled Mercedes in the newspapers. There were rumors that the photographer who got the first shots of the car before the ambulance arrived received over half a million dollars for his trouble. In a rare show of restraint, nothing that had been published showed Diana or Trevor, the only other survivor, being lifted from the wreckage or worse, images of Henri’s or Dodi’s twisted torsos flung through the windshield. She knew those photographs existed. They must be holding out for more money, she thought.

  Sometimes, in her dreams, the gruesome images captured on film were jumbled up with flashbacks of the Mercedes speeding along the Seine, attempting to outpace the hungry paparazzi in hot pursuit.

  During her twice-weekly sessions with her therapist, Diana talked exhaustively of her guilt over Dodi’s death and relief that her sons had been spared the heartbreak of losing their mother. Nothing was the same since her return to Apartments 8 and 9 at Kensington Palace, except for one thing—she was still alone. Now more than ever.

  Diana looked out the window. The weeks of heavy rain had knocked the last stubborn rose petals to the ground. The rest of the blooms had shriveled and died while she had been away which, she thought, was a sad irony. That summer she had felt hopeful, excited even, about her future, but now she kept asking herself how it all had gone so very wrong.

  Diana realized that this was the first time she was really seeing all the changes that had taken place in her apartment while she was on holiday. Before she’d left for St. Tropez, she’d approved all the fabrics and colors for her sitting room, which was long overdue for some sprucing up. Diana had chosen to replace the girlish shades of pink and sickly-sweet peach left over from the days when she lived here with Prince Charles with a more serene palette of blues and creams. She was grateful that she had decided to let the decorator finish the refurbishment while she was away.

  The garish lime green and orange carpet patterned with the Prince of Wales’s heraldic feathers on the first floor was torn up and tossed out—along with the formal dishes that bore the same pattern. Diana had had a good laugh after smashing them to pieces with a hammer and tossing them in the trash. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” she said at the time.

  Before she left for her holiday aboard the Fayeds’ yacht, the Jonikal, she was excited about starting fresh and wanted her apartment to feel like the home of a stylish and confident single woman when she returned, with all traces of the gilded prison of a discarded royal wife gone. She glanced around her sitting room and saw that all her favorite things had been placed just where they should be in the newly decorated space: the Chinese porcelain vases, her collection of Herend animal figurines, the rows of silver-framed photographs of her boys that sat atop her grand piano. The only piece of old furniture that remained was her desk, which was just as she’d left it except for one thing—the rosary beads given to her by Mother Teresa that she usually draped over the statue of Christ were not there.

  She had had them brought to her while she was in the hospital and slept with them under her pillow since coming home. Diana felt terribly disappointed that she was not able to attend Mother Teresa’s funeral. She also knew that it was likely not a coincidence that she emerged from her coma on the same day Mother Teresa died. Mother had gone to heaven and convinced God to give Diana more time on Earth. She was sure of it.

  Diana had always considered herself deeply spiritual rather than religious. She’d tried a host of therapies and alternative treatments in hopes of finding the inner peace that had eluded her for so long. Hypnotherapy, aromatherapy, colonic irrigation, even scream therapy. Diana had sought out the advice of various astrologers for years and sat for monthly Tarot card readings, hanging on every word.

  She wasn’t “a total believer,” but she’d yearned to connect with people who could counsel her in ways that therapists could not. Still, Diana never stuck with any one for long, perhaps because deep down she knew they were all just telling her what she wanted to hear. The crash had changed her mind about all of it. “It’s all rubbish,” she’d told her sister the other day. “Just another group of hangers-on looking for a chance to sell me out. I’m done with them all.”

  Now she prayed to God for the strength to find a way to begin again as a survivor—not only of the crash, but also of a life that had all but drained her of her belief in herself and her ability to make the kind of impact she longed to make on the world. This was not the way she’d planned to begin a new chapter of her life, but she had no choice. When Diana had told those photographers in St. Tropez that they “would be surprised about what I’ll do next” she was just baiting them. Now, her words had taken on real meaning. In the hours after the horrific crash, no one had expected her to actually survive. But she had. And as she had told Martin Bashir in that ill-fated interview, “I’ll fight to the end.” This time, she meant it.

  Diana knew she faced an uphill battle in ways she had not anticipated before the accident. She walked over to the mirror and absently touched the bright pink scar that ran down the side of her face from her ear to her jawline. She pulled a few pieces of hair from behind her ear and brushed them forward to cover it. Then she tucked them back in place. Her face still felt numb on the right side where she’d shattered her cheekbone. This is me now, she thought resolutely. The face that sold all those newspapers won’t look so pretty on the front page now.

  Diana knew her status as a style icon was important currency. She understood it was the power of her beauty that had enabled her to achieve her humanitarian goals. Auctioning off her old dresses at Christie’s in New York had proved that. She would be forever grateful to William for coming up with such a brilliant idea.

  The success of the auction inspired her to make plans to create The Princess Diana Foundation that she had hoped to launch later this year. She had decided she’d do one big television interview about it and some magazine pieces. Oprah Winfrey had been sending enormous arrangements of peonies and white lilacs every spring for years with a note reminding her she had “an open invitation” to come on her show and “talk about whatever” she wanted. Anna Wintour, with whom she’d had lunch at the Four Seasons this past summer, was eager to have Diana on the cover of American Vogue’s annual “Age” issue and had promised that the interview could focus on her campaign to rid the world of landmines. Of course, Diana’s dear friend Liz Tilberis, who was the editor of Harper’s Bazaar in America, would undoubtedly do something wonderful as well.

  Diana and Liz had hit it off at their first meeting, after the Princess became engaged to Prince Charles and Liz was working at British Vogue. Diana had made a special trip to New York a few years ago to present the beloved magazine editor with an award at a fashion industry gala.

  Then there was Vanity Fair. Diana loved Mario Testino’s photographs of her for the magazine’s cover story that had come out in July to coincide with the auction of her dresses. Diana felt the images in which she was fresh-faced and barefoot reflected how she wanted to be seen—confident and relaxed now that she was free from the constraints of royal life. Mario had even taught her to “catwalk” during the photo shoot, which delighted her.

  Diana was also fond of Vanity Fair’s editor in chief, Graydon Carter, whom she’d met at the Serpentine Gallery that night three years ago when Charles had gone on television and confessed to his adulterous affair with Camilla, while she showed up at the gallery gala looking radiant
and racy in what was to become the world’s most famous ‘little black dress.’

  She’d giggled like a schoolgirl when Graydon told her he loved her “revenge dress.” What an astute comment, she thought at the time—especially from a man. She hadn’t even planned on wearing the short cocktail dress that helped knock Charles off the front pages the next day. Diana had selected a long gown by Valentino to wear to the opening, but when the designer’s press office jumped the gun and sent out a press release announcing that the Princess of Wales would be wearing one of his creations to the gala without clearing it with her office, she changed her mind.

  Diana had purchased the black strapless cocktail dress that showed off her long, toned legs off the rack on a whim at Christina Stambolian’s shop on Beauchamp Place one afternoon after she’d had lunch at San Lorenzo with her brother, Charles. Diana saw the dress in the window and dragged him into the store so she could try it on. She loved how sexy she felt in it, and when she asked her brother if she should buy it, he nodded appreciatively and said, “It was made for you.”

  In the year since her divorce, Diana had been drawn to decidedly sexier looks. Whether it was a dress with a shorter skirt (always worn without princessy pantyhose) or a gown that revealed more cleavage, she was thrilled to flaunt the results of hours spent at the gym and a disciplined—and healthy—diet. She particularly loved Jacques Azagury’s figure-hugging dresses and was a frequent visitor to his Knightsbridge shop. She’d worn several of his designs over the summer, including a stunning, sky-blue, beaded mini dress whose color matched her eyes perfectly and a low-cut, beaded black gown she picked out for a dinner at the Tate Gallery on her birthday. Diana was so thrilled with how she looked and felt in Jacques’ dresses that on the day she left for Paris, she’d surprised him with a gift she had delivered to his shop. It was three photographs of her in his most stunning dresses matted in a large gold frame with the simple inscription. “Love, Diana.”

  Diana had become adept at using clothes to tell her story. She had pared down and simplified her look, which telegraphed her message that she was free of the restrictions she had endured for so long. Her makeup was simpler (she’d finally given up the kohl eyeliner for good) and her hair was straighter, longer and blonder. She started wearing more foreign designers for public appearances and now wore Chanel suits in addition to her long-standing favorites from Catherine Walker.

  Her post-divorce wardrobe was a carefully chosen backdrop for Diana the woman, not the discarded semi-royal ex-wife. She was determined to not have her clothes overshadow her work during her trips to Angola and Bosnia, where she spent most of her time comforting the victims of landmines. In choosing entirely appropriate Ralph Lauren oxford shirts, khakis and J.P. Tod’s loafers, she unwittingly created another ‘Diana look.’

  Even when fashion was the furthest thing from her mind, she couldn’t completely escape her role as a style icon.

  Diana had been excited about her upcoming role as a humanitarian ambassador for Britain, which she had discussed in secret meetings with newly elected Prime Minister Tony Blair. This past summer she’d told a friend, “I think I have found a way to give my life a greater purpose. I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long time.” And she’d meant it.

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  All of that would have to wait now until Diana could sort out how to move forward. She knew the press was staked out all over London lying in wait for those first post-crash photographs of her. She wondered what bounty had been placed on her newly disfigured face.

  The French plastic surgeon who had worked on her face the night of the accident came to see her after she’d awoken from a week in a coma. He explained that most of the cuts on her face would fade but said the large scar that ran from her right temple to her jawline was too deep to disappear completely, even at the hands of the most skilled plastic surgeon. It could, he said, fade somewhat over time. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted it to.

  Diana felt more traumatized by the accident itself than by the idea that she would in all likelihood be scarred for life. How much of her self-esteem was wrapped up in the public adulation that came from being heralded as one of the world’s most beautiful women? She couldn’t delude herself into thinking it didn’t matter, but she didn’t feel physically or emotionally strong enough to confront it head-on—at least not yet.

  Her mood seemed to change from one moment to the next—from grateful to have survived the crash to resentful at having to bear a physical reminder of that horrible night for the entire world to see. In her mind, her scar branded her a woman who had made the near fatal mistake of trying to leverage her fame to win back the one man who didn’t care she was a princess. It was also the mark of the outsider she had become—divorced from Charles but tethered to the royal family because of her sons. The royal family had done all they could to marginalize her, but her close relationship with her sons prevented them from freezing her out completely. Diana was sure the Queen found unseemly the public outpouring of support for her in the form of the mountains of ‘Get Well’ balloons, flowers and stuffed animals that had taken over outside the gates of Kensington Palace. Before returning to the palace, Diana had issued a statement of gratitude to all who had sent good wishes and tokens of affection. She had asked for the time and space she needed to recover, and requested that well-wishers take their flowers to local hospitals instead of to the palace gates so they could be enjoyed by patients who needed cheering up.

  Her boys had sent a huge bouquet of her favorite white lilies ahead of her coming home, and the flowers’ heady scent filled the room. But the apartment’s silence was unsettling. Diana walked over to the piano and sat down. She began to quietly play Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 2.

  Playing one of her favorite pieces of music always calmed her. But today was too beautiful a day to stay inside. Diana thought about grabbing her mobile and heading outside for a marathon catch-up session with friends who had been ringing the palace while she was away. She didn’t feel entirely comfortable talking on the phone at the hospital because she feared her calls were being monitored.

  The sun was streaming through the picture window facing the garden. Diana decided she’d take her correspondence basket and sit outside and begin answering the notes sent by her dearest friends that her butler, Paul, had fished out from among the thousands of letters that continued to arrive every day. She’d start with Liz Tilberis, who she knew was fighting her own battle with ovarian cancer.

  Before she could go looking for a sunscreen (the doctor had said she’d need to make sure to use it all the time so the scar would not darken), Paul appeared in the doorway.

  “The Prince of Wales is here to see you, Ma’am.”

  Charles had accompanied her when she was moved to King Edward VII’s Hospital and visited every day while she was in a coma for eight days.

  Diana had not spoken to him alone except for one brief exchange they had the day she’d woken up. He’d looked positively stricken and assured her that the boys were being looked after. Diana was grateful he’d kept them out of the public eye, and he agreed when she insisted that William return to Eton and Harry go back to Ludgrove for the beginning of the term as planned. Diana wondered how all of this had affected Charles’s relationship with Camilla. She was purposely staying out of sight, but Diana knew that wasn’t for her sake. She surmised that Camilla was just biding her time until the public hysteria about the crash died down.

  “Hello, Diana.”

  “Charles, what are you doing here?”

  “To look in on you, of course.”

  “Am I no longer disowned from the family since I’m this helpless maimed creature?” She hadn’t meant to sound so bitter.

  “Diana, please. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m getting stronger but a bit tired today.”

  “I’m sure you’ll feel more comfortable now that you’ve come home. Is there anything you need?�
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  Diana, taken aback by Charles solicitousness, wanted to change the subject. “I’ve been told the Queen is concerned that Mohamed Fayed is making things quite difficult with his claims his son was murdered.”

  “You know there is absolutely no truth to any of it,” said Charles. “Your driver was speeding, trying to outrun those photographers. The French investigators concluded he was drunk. That is the reason those men are dead.”

  “The man lost his son. He is overwhelmed with his grief.”

  “I know that. But all this talk about dark forces trying to murder you and Dodi so that the mother of the future king wouldn’t marry a Muslim is ridiculous.”

  “Is it?”

  “Diana, the car was traveling at an extremely high speed and spun out of control. Thank God you were wearing your seat belt. You likely would have been killed if you hadn’t. It was a horrible accident which in all likelihood would not have happened if you still had royal protection officers.”

  “And certainly would not have occurred if I had not been in Paris with Dodi.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “I was on holiday with the boys and then decided to extend it when they went off to Balmoral. I was never supposed to even be in Paris. If I had gotten approval to take them to America as I originally planned. . . . I never imagined anything like this.” She felt herself near tears.

  “I’m sorry this has all been so difficult,” said Charles softly.

  “Then please tell the ‘men in gray’ to stop putting out those horrible stories about Dodi and his father,” said Diana, sounding freshly indignant. She was sure the nameless, faceless members of the staff at St. James’s Palace were still intent on feeding the press stories that were highly unfavorable to her. “They invited me on a summer holiday because I could not take the boys to the Hamptons and then, after my trip to Milan got canceled, I had no other plans. Now, because of me, Dodi is dead and his father has lost his only son.”